


Sweet Like Cinnamon

by heartless16



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, One Shot Collection, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Singing, Slight Alternate Universe, loosely-interconnected drabbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:56:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5699176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartless16/pseuds/heartless16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: A late night at St. Bart's morgue shows Sherlock that there is more to Molly Hooper than meets the eye.<br/>One-shot inspired by Lana Del Rey's Radio.<br/>Chapter 2: A misunderstanding brings Sherlock, Molly and John together for one rainy afternoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Song lyrics: Radio by Lana Del Rey  
> Disclaimer: I do not own the song lyrics, or the character

The staccato ringing of a phone cut through the chilling silence of the morgue laboratory, drawing its only inhabitant back to reality. Eyes blinked, refocusing after an arduous mission with the light microscope. The pink and green colors that were visible in the microscope lens now danced mockingly across the young man’s vision.   
  
How long had he been here?  
  
Methodically, hands began the task of storing away the microscope. The newly made slide was labelled and added to an ever-growing collection of slides, housed inside a chocolate brown slide box.  
The microscope itself needed to be wiped down and stored away, it was, after all a delicate piece of equipment. Normally he would not even bother, but it was after hours…and he was the last person in the laboratory. His plan had been to leave hours ago…but the experiment he had been working on continued to yield such interesting results. One analysis lead to another, one more set of slides to prepare…he had forgotten just how tedious acid-fast stains were.  
  
Still…the results were not satisfactory.  
  
Standing, the man stretched, one hand reaching for his coat while the other withdrew the mobile from his inside pocket. It was a text message. 

A grocery list.  
  
The man heaved a sigh of annoyance. This was what ruined his concentration? Shattered the series of carefully compiled hypotheses he had assembled in his mind for the past five hours? His experiment was disrupted so he could pick up milk, and eggs and bread?

_Boring._  
  
With a flourish, the man exited the room, closing the door softly and slipping the black leather gloves onto his hands. It was almost ten-thirty. How long did the supermarket stay open? The man wracked his brain, searching for that piece of information. A fruitless expedition; he must have deleted it; probably was not important anyway. He had been fully prepared to leave. All he had to do was to turn the corner, go up the stairs and exit through the double doors. It was simple…routine. Something he had done countless times. Everything had always been the same.  
  
Except tonight.  
  
Tonight, there was music, wafting down the hallways like an invitation. A soft tune just begging for an investigation. But he could not…there were groceries to buy. The supermarket might be closing soon. John was waiting for him. Anticipating at any moment for him to open the door and trek up the stairs carrying bags of milk, eggs, tea, and vegetables that would probably spoil because he was using the crisper for an experiment. The man paused, feet coming to a halt on the hard linoleum flooring. The nagging buzz of curiosity reverberated throughout his whole being. The urge was too great to resist.  
  
The man turned slowly toward the sound, his movement stiff, like a figurine imprisoned in a music box. He began following the noise, each step bringing him closer and closer to the answers he so desperately craved. His footsteps came to a pause just at the door of an office marked ‘Records’. So this was where the morgue kept the paperwork. A small frown worked its way onto his stoic features, why had he never entered this room before?

_“I’ve finally found you…”_

An eyebrow rose incredulously, the silky lilting tones of music were louder now. It was a song that, though he could not recognize, he identified the hushed alto voice accompanying the music.   
Molly Hooper.  
She was singing…it was something he had never associated with the pathologist. How could he have missed this?

Gloved hands stretched out, quietly pushing the already ajar door open further and slipping one tentative foot inside. His mind reeled with the new revelation. His eyes roamed, taking in all the important details of the room: the tall, black filing cabinets lining the pristine white walls, the computer resting on the dark oak table in the far corner of the room, currently belting out the unfamiliar tune, and Molly herself, rustling through an open drawer softly singing along without a care in the world.  
  
_“Now my life is sweet like cinnamon,_  
_Like a fucking dream I’m living in,_  
_Baby love me ‘cause I’m playing on the radio…”_  
  
Impulsively, he fully entered the room, leaning against one of the cold hard cabinets and staring in wonder at the young woman before him. Molly Hooper was many things….smart, loyal, rather eccentric at times and somewhat naïve.   
But she didn’t sing….and she definitely did not curse.  
  
Yet, here she was….standing in this cold and dreary room, altering the information and invalidating the evidence he had collected about the pathologist and stored away within his mind. She had ruined his deductions with a strange tune and lyrics that were nonsensically meaningless.  
  
_“Pick me up and take me like a vitamin,_  
_‘Cause my body’s sweet like sugar venom oh yeah,_  
_Baby love me cause I’m pl-“_  
  
Molly Hooper pushed the drawer shut and turned around, her voice trailing off suddenly. She blinked, brown eyes wide and a blush decorating her small cheeks. “Sherlock? W-what are you doing here so late?”  
He was silent, eyes taking in everything about her appearance. It looked like she had recently returned from a trip, judging by the rumpled state of her faded light blue jumper. She was wearing black, tight-fitting jeans, the type with fake back pockets. But, the material was not denim, so not jeans, but those odd stretchy ‘jeggings’ teenagers wore these days.  
  
Obviously, she was looking for comfort. Her shoes were small flat plimsolls in the shade of an alarming electric blue, the style of which had no laces and did not cover her feet entirely. Probably not the best shoes for a laboratory, but she was supposed to be on holiday and not due back until Thursday.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
He blinked, her voice forcing him back into reality. “I thought you were still on holiday. They told me you wouldn’t be back till Thursday.”  
  
Molly smiled. “It is Thursday.” She turned down to the computer, eyes darting quickly as she stared at the screen. Her cheeks still seemed flushed in the florescent lighting, and she fidgeted slightly, feet shuffling left to right on the linoleum flooring. “Why are you here so late?”  
  
“Ah.” Sherlock clasped his hands together. “I was attempting an isolation streak. But the strain of bacteria I’m working with is rather…persistent.” He looked down at the floor and back up. “I heard the music from the laboratory…I didn’t know you could sing, Molly.”  
  
The young woman blushed. “I-I was visiting a cousin graduating from uni soon. Played that song so much it just got stuck in my head.” A nervous laugh left her lips. “That happen to you before?”

 He pursed his lips…how was he supposed to answer that question? Such a phenomenon was unfamiliar at best. What did it feel like to have such a nonsense tune invading the mind…was it a good sensation? Wouldn’t that be aggravating? Molly did not seem aggravated…in fact, she looked almost happy, if not a little giddy.  
  
Perhaps it depended on the song? Could he compare it to the overwhelming tingle that raced down his spine when he picked up his violin? Was it like the rush of calm that invaded his mind when the sound of Tchaikovsky flowed smoothly from the sophisticated instrument?  
  
“What am I saying; of course not.” Molly answered her own question quietly; her voice a soft mumble that she probably hoped could not be heard. Clutching another thick manila folder, she turned back to the filing cabinet and began to sort through its contents.   
  
Confusion settled over him once more as she continued arranging the cabinet, still humming and dancing slightly to the music that floated out from the computer speakers. He watched her, stared at her long, usually straight brown hair that now draped across her shoulders in loose, flowing waves. His eyes traced over her figure, taking in her small hips that now, in those ridiculously tight ‘jeggings’, seemed not-so-small…Sherlock turned his head to stare at the white walls, hoping that the odd heat he felt in his cheeks was not visible. “You look… different. Your cousin studied fashion design?”  
  
Molly’s brown eyes narrowed as she turned around once more, watching him intently. Her hand had stilled from the erratic movements her fingers made on the keyboard. She seemed almost suspicious, wary. “How did you-“  
  
Sherlock waved his hand nonchalantly. “The earrings. Obviously hand-made with low quality materials. The design itself is rather unusual, a triskelion which, if I’m not mistaken is of Celtic origin? A gift, I assume?”  
  
Molly blinked. “Yes, but-“  
  
“The workmanship is completely at odds with the rest of your jewelry, frankly I’m surprised you even put it on at all. In fact-” Why was he doing this? Saying all these things? Why did he feel so… uneasy all of a sudden?  
  
Molly’s brown eyes watched him with bewilderment. She stepped away from the computer desk, having shut the device down and retrieved her jacket. Shrugging the overcoat across her slender frame, the young woman snatched her purse from the floor and headed towards the door. “Um, shall we?”  
  
Sherlock quickly stepped through the door, waiting just outside with his clenched hands jammed tightly in his pockets. The awkward sensation of nervousness floated up in his chest as he watched her saunter down the hall, that silly tune still floating from her lips.  
  
He followed her…..unable to comprehend why.

* * *

  
“Y-you don’t plan on walking me home, do you?” Molly asked suddenly as they left the hospital into the chilly cold air. “Only you probably have more important plans and I-“She trailed off, running her hands nervously through her bouncy, curly hair.  
  
Sherlock eyed her for a long moment, following the movements of her hands as she pushed the wind-blown hair from her face. His hand clenched the phone in his pocket with frustration. Why was he feeling these…sensations, this un-explainable urge to touch her hair, to trail those soft looking curls through his fingertips, the bubbling desire to kiss her lips… _.to know if she tasted like cinnamon._  
  
The consulting detective looked away, stifling the confusing urges as he observed the dwindling presence of people roaming about the towns. A small smile touched his lips. “John wants me to pick up groceries. Groceries are boring.”  
  
Molly lifted an eyebrow as she turned to face him, a burst of laughter leaving her lips suddenly. “You’re walking me home to avoid picking groceries?”  
  
“I hope you don’t mind,” Sherlock replied as they waited at a busy intersection for the lights to change.  
  
“No-not at all”, Molly said with a timid laugh as she fiddled with her coat sleeves.  
  
A rather comforting silence fell between the consulting detective and the pathologist as they walked down the dimly lit streets of London. Sherlock could not help but feel somewhat unnerved…most of the time any silence between him and Molly was…awkward at best. Ice blue eyes observed the young woman intently, noting the way the tips of her shoes scuffed against the pavement at random intervals, as if she was tripping over some invisible barrier. If he did not know her, he would have assumed she was slightly clumsy.  
  
Her stride however, was anything but.   
  
Molly Hooper walked with the poise of a dancer, with light, graceful evenly spaced footfalls and the perfect posture. She exuded confidence, a self-assuredness that Sherlock had never noticed, or perhaps never bothered to observe.  
  
The consulting detective watched her as she walked slowly down the pavement, slowing her stride occasionally to peer at the clothing shop displays; it seemed Molly was also an avid window-shopper. She was rather meticulous in this regard; he noted that the pathologist lingered at the displays of short, brightly patterned dresses, knee-length pencil skirts, high waist trousers and chunky heeled combat boots.  
  
It was hard to picture Molly in any of those items. By the time the two had reached her train stop, Sherlock had attempted, and failed, to draw up any memories of the pathologist clad in any of the styles she seemed to admire. He continued to ponder the intricacies of Molly’s sense of style…drawing many blanks. It was almost impossible to imagine Molly working in the hospital morgue dressed in a bespoke suit jacket, starched button down and fitted pencil skirt; or strolling down the streets of London in a short flowered dress, dark opaque tights and heavy laced combat boots.  
  
The consulting detective watched her as she made her way into the train station, his body still tingling from the one-armed hug she hurriedly and awkwardly pulled him into before dashing in to the building. That absurd song had long since invaded his thoughts, the somewhat haunted tones echoing throughout his mind palace alongside Molly’s quiet alto.  
  
Sherlock was unsure if that was a good thing.

* * *

“-lock.”  
  
“Sherlock!”  
  
Ice blue eyes flicker, moving from the spot on the wall to the exasperated face of his flat mate. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, sweeping over the room quickly and noticed that John was in the midst of unpacking the groceries. He couldn’t even remember buying them.  
  
“You forgot the eggs.” John noted casually as he rustled through the bags on the table. “Did you even look at the list I sent you? What are we supposed to do with all these carrots?”  
  
Sherlock stared at the bag John was holding up, trying to mask his own confusion. Did he really purchase all that? Waving his hand nonchalantly, he answered. “They were on sale. Besides, carrots are good for you.”  
  
“You don’t even eat carrots, Sherlock!”  
  
“Oh.” The consulting detective’s mind drifted again, attempting to organize the new and puzzling data he had collected about Molly Hooper. She had a surprisingly decent singing voice, but when he mentioned it, she blushed with embarrassment. The pathologist was fond of silly pop tunes but Sherlock could not conclude if it was genuine interest, or an influence of her cousin in university.  
Though Molly dressed in plain, loose fitting clothing, she seemed to have an eye for trendy outfits.  
  
Molly Hooper was full of contradictions.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
He looked up and stared at his flat mate, who sat in front of him holding out a plate of toast. At least what looked like toast? Narrowing his eyes, the consulting detective eyed the doctor. “What is this?”  
  
“It’s toast. Well, cinnamon toast.”  
  
Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “What?”  
  
John shrugged. “You melt butter on toast; sprinkle it with sugar and cinnamon? An old friend mentioned it in Afghanistan.” He set the plate on the detective’s lap, rolling his eyes at the incredulous look in Sherlock’s eyes. “You bought the bloody cinnamon! What else am I supposed to do with it?” He stood then, turning to retrieve his laptop. “Just eat it; you haven’t had anything for three days.”  
  
Sherlock blinked as he stared at the plate, and then back at John several times. Did he really purchase cinnamon? A small smirk spread on his lips at the irony. Gingerly he lifted a slice and bit off a small piece. Molly’s voice grew louder within his mind palace, the low melancholy tune and the soft alto of the pathologist echoing repetitively.  
  
Sherlock took another bite of the toast.  
  
_Sweet like cinnamon, indeed._


	2. Of Rainstorms, Bubble Tea and Mindless Humming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: A misunderstanding brings Sherlock, Molly and John together for one rainy afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters.

At a distance.

It was always at a distance. He saw her strolling through the building, navigating the somewhat crowded halls, mobile pressed to her ear and a bounce in her steps. Brown eyes would lift up, dart over the many faces memorizing, cataloguing…skipping lightly over his own. Then she would disappear, turn the corner, step through the doorway; arrive at her destination.

Three weeks had passed.

Every day the same. Every day he saw her at a distance…her warm brown eyes would twinkle as she greeted her colleagues, small lips would spread into a polite smile. Even the strangers…even the nameless on the crowded streets of London were graced with her polite disposition. The second year university student (currently struggling with some concepts in her Physics class… but would no doubt succeed) who rode the same train received a polite 'hello'; the elderly woman who waited outside the hospital every Wednesday afternoon for her daughter (a doctor in the oncology unit) got a cheerful 'good afternoon'.

He was beginning to miss the sound of her voice.

Sentiment… it really, truly was an absurd phenomenon. Sherlock swallowed down the dull ache in his chest with a sip of tea, watching the traffic drift by from the window. His hand curled against the fabric of his trouser pockets. He hated moments like this…the emptiness that settled in his chest after a particularly challenging case. That familiar buzz of agitation, the cacophony of thoughts and deductions slowly filling the void... unknown voices echoing in his mind; the sound reverberating with a haunting cadence.

One he couldn't quite delete…the rhythm of old habits.

A huff of annoyance left the detective's lips. This was all Lestrade's fault. Why hadn't he come with any new cases? Or was this endless rain determined to drive him insane with boredom? Sherlock closed his eyes, his forehead resting against the chilled windowpane. He could still hear it….faintly as if in a dream; that song and Molly's quiet alto. That dull ache resurfaced once more, and he could feel his heart flutter painfully.  
Pushing away from the window the detective folded himself into the arm chair, watching with curious eyes the slumbering form of his flatmate. There was a book dangling in John's lax grip as he slouched on the sofa, the occasional snore escaping the small opening of his frowning lips.

The weather was not good for John's shoulder.

Yes, the man tried to hide it…to brush off the occasional twinge of pain, ignore the sting of overexerted muscles…but this-this was more than that. To ignore this pain, medication was necessary. Why else would John sleep so soon after breakfast? And with a book no less? John never slept while reading…he never slept so early in the day either.

Sherlock stared at the mug in his hands…the tea was cold. With a sigh, he pushed the mug onto the crowded table and curled up tightly into the armchair, trying to quell the sudden barrage of thoughts that swirled unbidden into his consciousness. Why did he hear her voice…crisp and clear as if she resided within the walls of his mind? Why did he…miss Molly Hooper so much?

_Why?_

_Why?_

It was something he couldn't answer…didn't know how to answer. The detective looked over at John, noting that the book had fallen to the floor and he stared inquisitively at the title glaring up from its spine. _'Diary of the Fall.'_

Sherlock pulled himself from the chair and donned his coat and scarf, pausing only to drape the fading afghan over John's sleeping form before slipping out into the pouring rain.

* * *

Molly Hooper's office was a mess.

The consulting detective stared at the multitude of files stacked haphazardly on the small oak desk, many of them toxicology and post-mortem reports that had been conducted during the three weeks he'd been unable to visit the hospital. Was she doing an internal review? Perhaps she was behind on paperwork?  
Sherlock picked up a file and opened it gingerly, staring at the information on one Julian Moore, an accountant who had been found dead in his home. This had been a re-opened case, ruled a suicide by the police for several weeks until new evidence had been found by a family member. The toxicology report seemed to prove he'd been murdered.

Sherlock closed the file and selected another one, skimming through the details of an analysis ordered on a series of samples found at a crime scene. He closes the file and looks up at the sound of footsteps, clasping his hands behind his back as Molly stares at him blankly.

"Sherlock. Haven't seen you in a while. Lots of cases then?" The young woman shifts awkwardly on her feet as her fingers curl tightly into the fabric of the lab coat. Molly's light brown eyes are cautious and reserved…not twinkling with the warmth she reserved for her colleagues. It makes him feel…almost disheartened that she still didn't quite trust him.

_Almost._

Sentiment was something he refused to dwell upon. He picks up another file and thumbs through it, not really processing the words on the pages. Sherlock clears his throat. "You've been busy."

Molly slumps into her chair and sighs. "I was attending some conferences...out of town. And then I received several samples that were labelled _'urgent'_." Her voice drips with sarcasm at the word 'urgent'. "Lucille was hospitali…"And suddenly, she stops mid-rant staring up at him with wonder; Sherlock can see, written plainly on her face that she is astonished at the fact that she'd spoken to him like a colleague…as if they were…friends.

The realization settles in his stomach like a warm liquid on a chilly day. But all too soon the moment dissipates; Molly ducks her head, staring intently at the open file on her desk with a blush colouring her pale skin. "Ah-Um. W-why are you here?" The pathologist stutters, her voice now cool and impersonal.

"I was hoping to obtain a sample of glial cells, but you were…unavailable."

She stares at him blankly, her face devoid of comprehension. "Glial…cells?" She blinks several times, and the detective finds himself tracing the shape of her round eyes, calculating the length of her eyelashes, cataloguing the way her brown eyes twinkled in the fluorescent lighting (flashes of hazel amidst a deep cinnamon brown), the dark circles under her eyes (very visible today, as she'd woken up late and didn't have enough time to apply concealer); she'd been working double shifts for approximately three days….and still she looked so…so…

"A short reprieve would do you wonders, Molly. You're pale enough as it is…any more stress would leave you looking rather horrid." It's only after the words have left his lips that Sherlock realizes just how… unkind they sounded.

"I…" His eyes dart around the room, desperate to avoid taking in the glimmer of pain in Molly's eyes. Sherlock springs into action, pulling Molly up from the swivel chair and shoving the dark coloured coat and handbag into her arms. "Where is the closest shop that sells bubble tea? Quickly, we haven't got all day!"

Molly stumbles down the hall after him, only one arm properly placed in the sleeve of her jacket. The soles of her small black boots thud heavily against the floor. "Bubble tea…Sherlock why are we looking for-?"

The consulting detective pauses, waiting for Molly to fasten her coat. "You said you liked bubble tea. Or was I mistaken?"

"Y-you remembered that? But that was such a long time ago…"

"Why would I forget?" Sherlock opens the umbrella he'd pilfered from the pathologist's office and links his hand with hers, pulling Molly closer to his side. Together they dart out into the rain, walking briskly down the pavement. "Think of it as an experiment…how many different flavours we might find on this street alone. What flavour would John like?"

"We're buying one for John too?"

"…He is…somewhat under the weather. While I do not quite… understand the sentiment, it seems that most people appreciate having visitors over when unwell? I am told that distractions are…essential to the recovery process."

Molly smiles up at him, the look in her eyes filled with an emotion that the detective couldn't quite place. She tightens her grip on his arm and replies, "I'm happy to be a distraction…provided we also make plans for lunch. I'm starving…and your fridge is probably empty."

"Not empty…there are several samples of sheep kidneys waiting to be dissected."

"Empty. And didn't I give those to you four months ago?"

"Three months and twenty-three days. Honestly Molly, must you step in every puddle you encounter? This is not a laughing matter…I might never be able to wear these trousers again by the time we arrive at our destination!"

* * *

"I think we can unanimously conclude that passion fruit and cucumber is…very unappealing to the palate."

Molly rolls her eyes, a smug smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I told you not to order combination flavours when we don't know how the individual ones taste." She taps the spreadsheet on the coffee table pointing at the column where his verdicts were slowly filling the page. "This one isn't very sugary."

"Hmm." Sherlock picks up his pen to record his findings. It seemed that the fruit based teas were somewhat more appetizing…when consumed as single flavours as opposed to combinations.

The doctor stares at him, incredulously. "Are you-you're serious about this?" John is leaning forward on the couch, elbows perched on his knees. He seems relaxed… his posture is no longer stiff, and his eyes are clear, alert…and filled with an irritated amusement. "This is the fifth-"

"Sixth, actually." Molly mumbles absently before jumping and looking up at John, her brown eyes wide with alarm. The transformation is startling to the detective…just a few seconds ago she had been calmly peering over his arm as he wrote his analyses in a notebook, quietly suggesting alternate words to use. Molly Hooper was practically a walking thesaurus.

"Fifth, sixth… can your tongue really tell the difference?" John sets the drink down on the floor. "Is this for a case…? I just can't wrap my mind around you being interested in _bubble tea_."

"Is this book any good?" Molly is holding up John's book from the floor, peering at the pages with intrigue. Sherlock watches as her eyebrow furrows in contemplation at the synopsis.

John shrugs, though Molly wasn't paying attention. "It's…" His voice trails off and his eyes lose focus as the doctor gets lost in his thoughts.

Sherlock sits back, the spreadsheet has been completed at last…and he looks at the columns, these contain the set of criteria used to analyse the drinks. It is an extensive list; although not scientific by any means…the observations were purely subjective and would definitely vary depending on individual preference.

"Yeah….That's how I felt after performing my first autopsy. On a child." Molly thumbs through the book, her brown eyes darting rapidly across the pages. "Fallen out of a three story window…at least, that's what the police report said. I remember picking out pieces of glass about the size of this-"

Sherlock pulls the book out of Molly's outstretched hands, tossing it across the room. It slams into the bookshelf, knocking over a stack of papers. The detective decides to ignore the look on John's face. It wasn't like he was enjoying it anyway. "Please don't feel the need to make conversation; really not your area."

With a sigh of irritation, Molly sits back her fingers twitching randomly. No, not random at all…that rhythm. Where did he hear it before? At a symphony rehearsal? On the radio?

Radio…

Sherlock is startled when, as if on cue, Molly begins to hum…. _that song_. The one that reverberated in his head over and over...until he'd accidently composed the notes into the violin concerto he'd been rewriting for several months. A mistake he would have overlooked had John not pointed it out to him late one evening. _"That section…no the one before. It….um…sounds like something on the… radio, perhaps?"_ John had mumbled, softly, staring over the open newspaper with an incredulous look on his face.

That _look_ was on John's face now…that exasperating knowing look that only appears on John's face when he realizes that he knows more about a topic. Usually trivial nonsense, but that look is infuriating just the same. And that smirk. That damn smirk of his…"Shut up John."

John looks at him, amusement poorly disguised by the innocent look he'd plastered on his face.

The detective stands moves into the kitchen desperate to do something; his fingers fumble with the fridge door as he pulls out the samples from the crisper. Erratically, Sherlock sets up his microscope, toying aimlessly with the knobs, the scalpel slips from between his nervous fingers once, twice…

Molly's hands curl around his own as she pulls the surgical tool away from him. The detective freezes and he gazes down at the table…desperately attempting to will away the somersaulting sensation in his stomach.

"You've never dissected kidneys before…I would hate to see such pristine specimens go to waste." She pauses, and a brief flash of something like embarrassment colours her cheeks. "Tune the microscope."

Sherlock says nothing, listens as Molly launched into a lecture about safely thawing specimens before analysis. He stands beside her in front of the stove as they gently warm up the sheep kidneys, watches as she explains the type of cuts…peers over her shoulder as Molly shows him the renal cortex…  
Her love of anatomy…Sherlock could hear it in her voice, in the way she paused to emphatically point out which sections of the kidney show up the best under the microscope; "They won't come out as thin because we aren't in an actual… lab…but you can still see _something_."

Molly rambles about microtomes as she places a glass slide into his hands; apparently Mike has refused to allow her access…Sherlock says nothing. It is obvious to him that if Molly had all the equipment necessary to complete post mortems in one laboratory…she would never leave.

"I don't suppose you have anything to stain this with?" Molly whispers, still peering into the lens.

Dye based experiments were not something he typically liked to dabble with...no matter how cautious and careful, something always ended up stained. "John threw out the eosin dye two days ago. For some reason…it was in his coffee mug."

"That's because _you_ put it there, Sherlock." John mutters grumpily from the living room, face buried in an old newspaper.

"Did I?" Sherlock pauses, trying to recall the last experiment that required the use of dye. "Don't remember." He peers back into the microscope, a pencil in his hand as he prepared to sketch the image. "Pity we don't have any more."

"Hmm." Molly shifts in her chair, brushing against his shoulder as she leans forward to take a look at the drawing. "Sherlock...did you really come to my office for glial cells?"

The detective pauses, his grip on the pencil tightens. "I was hoping you would have some available...but it's not very urgent." He glances at her face, noting the uncharacteristic blankness...Molly never was good at hiding her emotions.

"So you really were looking for a distraction?"

"Not personally..."

"I know...I just-" Molly's staring intently at the case of surgical instruments, fingers caressing the sharp blade. "Well- you've been so...nice and you-you remembered something I told you... and- I-I just can't help but think-" Her voice drops to a whisper. "I can't help but think you're only doing this because you want something."

She inhales sharply, words tumbling from her lips frantically. "What is it you want from me? Another liver for your experiments? An arm...I'll see about those glial cells but it may not be until next month cause that's when the student training beg-"

"Molly!" Sherlock stares into her brown eyes, quite startled at glare of irritation that was beginning to slip through the mask of indifference. "I'm not doing this for anything...you were avoiding me. I-I was merely investigating the reason."

"A-avoiding you? I was never-"

"Twice last week I went to the laboratory...but that receptionist with the funny coloured hair told me you 'weren't allowing any non-hospital personnel into the laboratory or the morgue, no exceptions.' However one Dr. Jeong from a research hospital in Nottingham was granted unrestricted access." Sherlock looks up from the microscope and forces down the curl of unease building up in his stomach. "I thought-"

"The-the lab instruments had to be calibrated…we-well, Mike decided to restrict access till things were sorted." Molly mumbles, staring down at the slide she was preparing. Her fingers curled tightly around the tweezers. "I wasn't-I didn't intent to avoid you….and it's not like…" Molly's voice trails off, she seemed lost in thought.

The flat is quiet now, and Sherlock can hear every sound that his pencil makes as it scratches against the paper, the methodical thump of the knife against the cutting board as John slices onions and brightly coloured peppers for supper. Molly stands suddenly, staring at her watch with a look of horror. "Christ! I-I really need to go." She darts around, gathering her things, retrieving her phone from where it had slipped under the sofa.

Sherlock doesn't know what to say…can't quite understand the flutter of nervousness that curls tightly in his stomach. "Molly, I-"

"Thank you, Sherlock." Molly stares at him, a warm look in her eyes. "I had a nice time. And I wasn't avoiding you. I-"She looks down, staring at her hands as they curled around the door knob. "I wouldn't do that to my friend."

The flood of warmth that settles over him lingers long after she disappears.

He watches as John sets a plate and a cup of coffee before him, carefully sliding the mess of slides to the other side of the table. Sherlock takes a sip of the coffee, staring down at the cup in confusion. Why was it tasting so...different?

"You brought Molly over because of me…didn't you." John mumbles, his hands still submerged in the sink of soapy water. The muffled clatter of silverware and ceramic fills the quiet room and the detective's mind begins processing those sounds, attempting to find some semblance of a rhythm though he knows it's rather futile.

"I was merely testing the findings of an interesting study." The lie feels strange coming from this mouth but he couldn't bring himself to admit…to acknowledge the worry that he had felt when upon realizing that John was unwell.  
John laughs softly, turning away from the sink, absently holding a saucepan underneath the running water. Sherlock stares, trying to ascertain why John's face looks different in the light of the setting sun.

_His eyes seem so…blue._

"Where did you get this coffee?" Sherlock hopes his face does not betray the sentiment he was trying so hard to bury. His lip twitches in annoyance when John wipes his dripping hands across his faded t-shirt and retrieves the tin of ground coffee.

"Mrs. Hudson gave it to me. Apparently she ground it herself, at her sister's place." John plies the sketchbook from his hands and flips through the drawings, handling the papers delicately at the corners.

Sherlock curls his fingers around the pencil still in his hand, suddenly unsure of what to say or how to act. He stares at his cup of coffee, inhaling slightly and wracking his mind because it didn't taste the same, because Mrs. Hudson had added something…but he just couldn't figure it out.

There wasn't enough data.

"Eat your food, Sherlock." John is still looking at the sketchbook, still slowly turning the pages and leaning forward to study the pictures. "Are these pancreatic cells? Don't remember looking at these in med school."

He picks up his fork and takes a small bite of the pasta on his plate, at least John didn't put so much hot pepper this time. Absently Sherlock toys with the food on his plate, separating the green peppers from the red, orange and yellow…he watches the way the reddish orange glow of the setting sun floods the kitchen, dancing off the haphazard pile of glass slides in sharp angles, casting shadows along the walls and painting the silvery strands of John's hair a subtle golden colour. _Does his hair feel as soft as it looks?_

"Cinnamon."

Sherlock looks up sharply, ignoring the loud clatter of his fork against the ceramic plate. "Pardon?"

John shakes the tin of ground coffee. "That's what Mrs. Hudson's sister put in the coffee. Cinnamon." A knowing look flits across his face. "You bought all that cinnamon weeks ago…thought you'd be interested."

He's smiling now, that infuriating grin that makes his stomach curl anxiously because he can't quite tell if John is teasing him or not. So he pushes the plate away and flops onto the couch arms crossed tightly. Sherlock doesn't expect John to sit down beside him…to tousle his hair…or put the plate of stir fry into his lap.  
The fork clings when it hits the plate and the sound echoes in his mind...this... muffled G sharp and if he just concentrated then it would form the foundation of a brilliant sonata...a musical piece that would aptly describe quiet afternoons, cups of hot tea and chemistry experiments.

"Maybe we could bake a cake? I could ask Mrs. Hudson for a recipe? Need to get rid of it somehow." John fiddles with the remote, skipping channel after channel till he stops…yet another re-run of Doctor Who. "We can invite Molly over."

Sherlock says nothing, curling his fingers around his mug and taking a sip of the coffee. The taste of cinnamon settles on his tongue and a tiny smile makes its way onto his face. "That would be nice."

**Author's Note:**

> How was it? Please review!  
> ~heartless16


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